"Janet Morris - Crusaders In Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Janet E)

Automobile B was a 1984 Jaguar X-6 sedan, green in color, with a green leather
interior. Safety harnesses were employed, Vehicle B was traveling north at a
normal rate of speed when it was impacted by vehicle A. There were two
witnesses, whose names and statements are listed below. After the emergency
paramedics were summoned by Officer Fishbeck, and the fire was extinguished, a
cursory search was conducted of what was left of vehicle A. A bottle of Herra
Dura tequila was found, still intact, along with cocaine paraphernalia. Also
in the glove compartment was what appeared to be a large electric dildo with
the inscribed words, "Look, Ma, top of the world!"
Robin and I had just bought a sensational old mock-Norman Tudor castle-type
house-small, but pasta perfecto-way up on Laurel Canyon in the Hollywood
Hills. Three bedrooms, a steel spiked portcullis, a cathedral ceiling in the
living room^ hardwood floors, a ten horsepower disposal, a view to everywhere,
and a pink and black marble master bath with a Speakman shower head* It's only
heaven, pal.
But it wasn't easy finding it. I mean, you got Iranians in track shoes trying
to get the good ones. Or developers laundering drug money, or (he worst: the
trust fund casualties. They buy them up, maybe redecorate, and just sit on
them until the price is right. Robin and I must have looked at two hundred
houses, from the Valley to Olympic, from the ocean to Pasadena. We'd get the
Times, make a big pot of double French roast coffee, and let our fingers do
the walking through the real estate section. That was back when we had dreams.
Before all this meshuga.
When I got to L.A. I had trouble, just like everyone else. But with some hard
work (so to speak; more about that later) and some good luck, I found myself
taking care of some kids who belonged to this old-time producer in Beverly
Hills.
He was a sweet guy-looked like a leprechaun, stole like a bandit, and drank
like the Commies were rolling into Santa Monica. The guy'd won an Oscar for
some movie that I never saw, but my buddy, who did, told me it was short and
boring with no tits and no gunfights - Just two fat-ass losers from Brooklyn
sitting in a kitchen talking. Different strokes I guess.
Anyway, this producer guy didn't know how to deal with his own kids. He loved
them true but, like most power brokers out here, he was scared of them. So I
took over the education of three of the meanest, best looking, smartest little
ferrets you ever saw. They had names, but I called them "Moe," "Larry," and
"Curly."
I taught them how to climb trees. I taught them how to play tennis. I taught
them how to roll joints. I taught them how to make crib sheets. I taught them
how to swim, how to ride, and how to lie so even your own mother couldn't
tell. Hey, these were good little cookies, and they deserved my best shot.
Besides, accidentally, I was getting pretty tight with their mom, a wild
Norwegian broad who taught me not to carry a wallet because it ruined the bun
fines on my tight whites. She should've been a pro, not a mom. Definitely.
One day I came over and the house was locked up. My boss was sitting on the
front porch, drinking out of a bottle of aquavit, grinning into a bright,
chirpy morning. He said his wife and a small hit squad of lawyers had gotten
there at sunup. They had served him the divorce papers, then seized the house
and contents. He showed me his Oscar, proud they hadn't got that, too.
That afternoon, we went to work at Warner Brothers. He had two tiny offices in